by Remi Michaud
Jorge leaned back, brow furrowing. “He did what?”
“One of those fools thrust a dagger at him and if he is to be believed—and I assure you he is; he's too naive to lie—he caught the bloody thing by the blade, plucked it from his attacker's grip and stuck him right in the gut.” Kurin leaned back and spread his arms and his smile wide. “There wasn't a scratch on his palm. I checked.”
“But, that's impossible! No one can do that!” Jorge exclaimed, his eyes wide.
“Unless we take a great deal of time to prepare ourselves. Time that Jurel did not have.”
Jorge nodded. “Yes. Time he did not have. In a situation like that-”
“We can protect ourselves a little, reduce the damage but...”
Along with being a healer Kurin was, at least to some degree, a showman. He hated it when he did not get the reaction he sought and it felt good, sweet, to finally finagle it from Jorge. He watched as Jorge reached the conclusion that Kurin was hoping for and he put to voice the words he knew Jorge was thinking. “But he did it.”
Jorge mulled over this information, his face gone white as snow, his eyes far away, rubbing a sausage finger along his gray beard in a way that Kurin had seen countless times before. Kurin definitely had his attention this time. He considered pressing his advantage but conceded that Jorge probably would not hear him, so lost in his own thoughts was he. So he waited for Jorge's decision, impatience digging at him, prickling him with its sharp thorns, until Jorge finally focused on Kurin.
“Anything else?”
Now. Now was the time to press the advantage. He smiled. He recounted Jurel's story almost word for word as it was told to him and he was pleased to see Jorge grow ever paler.
“All right Kurin. This sounds promising. Bring him to the Abbey. We'll investigate this further when you get here. I'll send Mikal out to meet you. Are you still in Tack Town?” At Kurin's nod, he continued, “He should be near there anyway, so I think he should be able to catch up to you in Merris.”
“Yes, your eminence,” Kurin said, letting his excitement get the better of him.
Jorge hated that title, hated it even more when Kurin used it, so of course, Kurin used it as much as possible. With a scowl and a growl, Jorge told Kurin to get out of his head, and Kurin found himself floating above the land, once again drifting over those sleeping stars. Happily, he turned and followed the thread of his consciousness home.
“I did it,” he exulted like a child. “They'll believe me now. They must.” He settled back into his body with a jolt and smiled.
“A new age is upon us,” he muttered. “And I shall be the one to usher it in.”
Chapter 25
High Priest Thalor sat in his ornate high backed chair cushioned with red velvet, at his desk, a vast oaken sea that dominated the center of his office, with various icons and pictograms cascading down its thick, long legs like waterfalls. Putting down his quill, he looked up, not bothering to notice the tapestries lining his walls. He could describe each with his eyes closed: one showed a scene of some ancient battle, cavalry running with spears thrust forward while archers launched death overhead, nothing unique about it except the craftsmanship, which was artful; another portrayed Gaorla in all His holy vengeance smiting the wicked and the blasphemous; a third, the blessing of Shoka as he knelt in silent supplication. Nor did he notice the fine side table with legs that looked so delicate they could not possibly support any substantial amount of weight—but was incredibly strong—that abutted the extinguished hearth and held a dozen beautifully crafted decanters glittering in the dim light. The filigreed candelabra of solid gold on the wide mantle held nearly three dozen candles, but only three were lit. It was enough.
His office was decorated with countless pieces of art, each one priceless and he, the son of a butcher, reveled in his position of power and wealth. His favorite had always been the statue that rested atop a stone pedestal at shoulder height beside his desk to his left where it was prominently visible to any who entered and where he could view it easily at any moment: a beautiful stallion as big as his head carved out of a single massive piece of jade, it reared on its hind legs, each muscle intricately formed to show grace and power, with a mane that flowed so convincingly that Thalor often thought he should feel a breeze when he placed his hand near the stunning sculpture. It reminded him of himself. Powerful, graceful, magnificent; this one, he always noticed and for a moment he let his eyes trace the fluid lines of the stallion, watched the candlelight flicker and play along the pale green stone and imagined for a moment that the muscles flexed and sinew stretched as it prepared to leap from its perch.
He had risen through the ranks with a combination of ruthlessness, single-minded determination, and hard work and he felt he deserved the beautiful office, outstripped only by his personal chambers and the chambers of the Grand Prelate himself. He remembered the high priest who had occupied this office before him with a certain relish. Well, that was to say, he remembered bringing the man down with relish. It had not been hard: a few whispered words in the right ears, and a forbidden script deposited in his chambers had seen the man arrested and tried for heresy. Three days later, Thalor had watched him burn. Eight days, and Thalor was moving his personal effects into his new office.
Tonight, as was his habit, he was up late perusing reports and signing proclamations and all manner of things that the Grand Prelate, bureaucratic old fool that he was, deemed necessary to keep things running smoothly, when a timid knock at his door caused him to jolt.
His raised his eyes, fixing them to his door, letting them adjust to the dimness, for the candlelight did not quite reach that far, and wondered who in bloody Shoka's balls would disturb him at that ridiculous hour.
“Come in,” he barked.
The door opened to admit his assistant, an acolyte of barely twenty years, still in his nightrobe and disheveled from his bed. The young man entered and bowed deeply, keeping his eyes averted low as was proper. One did not look upon one's betters as an equal, after all.
“Well?” Thalor demanded. “What is it?”
“Your grace,” the young acolyte muttered, “one of our agents has intercepted a Sending.”
“Do you have any idea what time it is, young man? Could this not have waited until morning?” His voice was silky, cultured. It slithered like a snake, hiding poisonous fangs underneath. He had worked hard to lose the peasant brogue that his father and mother had spoken while they were alive.
“Yes your grace. I mean, no your grace. I—The Sending is from Kurin.”
“Kurin? That old dog? Is he still chasing ghosts?” Thalor asked, amusement bubbling up. He enjoyed cowing his subordinates and this one was plenty cowed. Oh yes he was.
“I—I don't know, your grace, but our agent reports that he spoke at some length with Jorge.”
“Another mangy cur. You did not interrupt me, I pray, so that you could tell me of two Salosian whoresons gossiping in the dead of night.” The frightened acolyte swallowed audibly and Thalor was pleased that his dangerous tone had the intended affect.
Give the boy credit, though. At least he's not fidgeting. Sweating, yes, but his hands are steady.
“No your grace. The agent wished you to know that Kurin seems to have found what he is looking for. He is to meet with a man named Mikal in Merris. From there, they are to travel straightaway to their Abbey.”
The young man ended his report and Thalor could see that his acolyte did not know the significance of what he had just reported. Thalor did not feel inclined to fill the boy in either; he kept his features even, trying to appear bored, though his thoughts roiled and his gut churned.
“Thank you. That will be all,” Thalor waved his man out, and looked down to the pages scattered on his desk, picking up his quill.
As soon as he heard the door latch click shut, he threw his quill down and stood with hands clasped behind his back, to pace the finely woven Kashyan rug in front of his desk. Thalor knew Kurin's story well. A
ll the upper echelons did. The man traveled the kingdom tirelessly searching for his golden boy, had been searching, in fact, for the past thirty odd years. He even knew that Kurin had found a few candidates through the years to pin his hopes to. Those candidates never panned out but the old man was relentless. Now he had found another one.
Thalor told himself that it was another wild goose chase but there was a problem. He knew the agent who had sent his young assistant running to him with this news—he hand-picked all of his own men. The agent was good, dependable. If he thought it important enough to disturb Thalor at this time of night, then it must have been quite important indeed. No mere wild goose chase, then. This new candidate had obviously done something special, something remarkable enough to have not only convinced Jorge, but convinced him enough to send Mikal. That could be problematic. Mikal was fiercely loyal to Kurin, and not a man thoughtlessly provoked. Not if one wished to keep one's head firmly attached, anyway. He would have to speak to the agent directly first thing in the morning after sunrise service, to hear every detail.
He sat down, still thinking. If nothing else, he could take steps to remove Kurin. That heretic had an annoying habit of popping up and meddling in affairs that were none of his concern. Perhaps he should send some heavily armed men to discuss Kurin's trespasses with him—before he met with Mikal, of course—and if they happen to kill some oaf pretender in the process, then so be it. Yes that would do nicely, Thalor thought smugly. He could kill two birds with one stone. He smiled at his own joke, an alien expression on his cruel features, his thin lips curling slightly upward in his skeletal face.
He seemed to recall a small coterie out in that neck of the woods that might do the trick, men who would be happy to serve their god in the darkness of an alley. For proper compensation, of course. No one worked for free these days, not even for a High Priest of Gaorla himself. A quick communication and Kurin would be no more than a heap of moldering flesh and bone in a shallow grave. The Grand Prelate might even thank him for ridding the world of the Salosian heretic. Perhaps he might gain a reward, or at the very least curry favor with the old fool. He was seen as quite the up-and-comer; with a little luck, this turn of events could see him securing a prelacy. He grinned at the thought, imagining himself, a butcher's son as one of the six prelates, answerable only to the Grand Prelate himself. Not even the king would dare gainsay him.
And answerable to Gaorla of course, he added. Because he was a good man. A pious man. A man whose tireless work was only for the greater good. He had done things that might have been considered by some to be terrible, maybe even evil. It made him snort in derision. To those, he would argue that anything done to keep the faith of the people strong was worth the price, even if the price was blood. Which brought him back to Kurin. The price of blood would be paid. He had made it his life's mission to rid the world of the heresy that was the Salosian Order and he would do whatever was necessary. A few strong men with sharp daggers would be a good start.
Yes, I think that will do very nicely indeed, he thought. I shall kill two birds.
He picked up his quill again, and shuffled through the mess of parchments, letting his eye follow the line of his stallion's majestic neck, that slight smile still curling his lips.
Chapter 26
Jurel stumbled bleary-eyed out the front door with his bag slung over his shoulder. It was early as Kurin had promised it would be, with dawn still two or three hours away and they were the only two people on the street. The town looked quite different at that hour with only the half moon, hung low on the horizon, to provide pale illumination. No hustle and bustle of townsfolk running errands, no hawkers crying out that their product was of the finest quality—the finest in town, they all bawled, only two coppers—no clanging of a smith's hammer or clopping of hooves. All of it had been replaced by the deep dark of night, impenetrable shadows obscuring the shops and stalls, reaching out, seeking with long fingers of gloom spreading like puddles of oil, giving the town an eerie facelessness that Jurel found unsettling, like he was trapped in a deep canyon between close set cliffs.
“If you're quite done gawking, my boy, then perhaps you would be so kind?” Kurin murmured and Jurel jumped at the sound of the old man's voice by his shoulder. He turned to Kurin just as a heavy sack, containing several hard squares was thrust at him.
“You're taking your books?”
“Of course I am. What, did you think I would leave all my valued possessions behind?” Kurin retorted and sniffed. “Put them in the cart, would you?”
Jurel turned again, lugging the hefty bag, to the small two wheeled cart that waited in the street in front of Kurin's shop. Jurel tossed it over the side rail of the cart, and it landed with a thud, jarring in the stillness, eliciting a hiss from Kurin.
“Are you trying to wake the dead, boy?” the old man snarled. “The point to leaving before dawn is to avoid detection but if you prefer, I can drop you off at the guardhouse on my way out of town. At least you won't wake the entire population that way.”
“Sorry,” muttered Jurel.
Kurin stalked back into his house grumbling about the foolishness of youth, leaving Jurel to stand alone in the dark. He decided to check on Kurin's horse, a roan gelding who snuffled quietly when Jurel patted his nose. The horse nosed at Jurel's pocket and he could not help but smile.
“Looking for a carrot are you? Don't worry, boy. I'm sure your master has something for you.”
The horse snorted as if it understood Jurel's words and turned away, suddenly disinterested in the young man who could not even be bothered to offer it a treat. Jurel laughed quietly, rubbed the horse's sleek neck, thinking the animal had every right to be disappointed. After all, it too had been roused far earlier than was normal. It was probably grouchy. And why not? He was.
“All right, Jurel. Let's get going,” Kurin said, materializing from the black maw where his door stood, and waved Jurel to the cart. “Hop on up in back and cover yourself with the blanket I put there. Just in case.”
Without hesitation, he did as the old man bade, clearing a space between the mounds of sacks, though he did not cover himself completely with the woolen blanket he found. It was a rough thing, undyed and coarse, and it immediately caused prickly little pins to stalk across any bare flesh, and even some that was not, which he scratched vigorously. Better than a noose, he supposed. Besides, there was a chill bite in the air that seeped to his bones despite his being wrapped in a heavy cloak and a fur offered to him by Kurin. The blanket itched, but it added another layer of warmth.
After hoisting himself onto the driver's bench, with an agility that seemed wholly out of place on such a frail looking old man, Kurin eyed the shadows where his humble little shop stood, sadness tugging the corners of his mouth.
“I'm going to miss this place, I think,” he said. Then, glancing over his shoulder, he caught Jurel's eye. “This might be a pretty long road we're on. Are you ready?”
With nothing else to say, Jurel simply nodded into the darkness. Kurin apparently saw the gesture, for he turned and flicked the reins lightly and clicked his tongue, urging his horse forward. The shadows started to roll by slowly, like a lazy river, indistinct and flat, and Jurel watched, rapt by the sight that was no sight, overwhelming darkness swirling and surrounding like current eddies when the moon reached its own destination, an unknown bed over the edge of the horizon, and the horse marched forward, its hooves thudding dully in the muddy road.
Time passed, minutes or hours Jurel could not tell in the hypnotized trance he fell into, while he stared at the progress of their passage. He felt saddened, did not really know why, by the fact that he was passing through a part of town that he had never actually seen, like realizing an old friend had kept secrets from him. He had been in this town on only a handful of occasions with Daved, but on those visits, he had never been east of the general store where his father picked up supplies, as if that store had been a boundary to his existence, never to be crossed lest some
unknown treaty was broken and war broke out.
Lately, he had stayed at Kurin's small shop, but that, he felt, did not count. He had not stepped foot in the street since his arrival. He had been hiding. Not from the town guard, no. Well, yes but he had not known they were searching for him until the previous day so hiding from them had been a secondary benefit. He had been hiding from himself, believing that if he never stepped foot out into the real world, then maybe the real world would remain separate from him. Maybe then his crimes would remain separate too. Another border. Another war.
And here he was. Out in the real world where his crimes were not apart from him but were instead a part of him, and he passed through this small town that he had briefly called home, leaving another old friend behind, secrets and all.
“Cover up,” Kurin hissed.
After a moment, from under the wool blanket Jurel heard a voice in the distance, ordering them to halt, and Jurel heard Kurin mutter to his horse. The cart rumbled to a standstill and Jurel waited.
“May I help you?” Kurin asked.
“Kurin? Is that you?” the voice called. Irrationally, uncomfortably, Jurel thought that this was the second time in two days that Kurin held a conversation with town guards while Jurel eavesdropped. Secrets indeed.
“Why of course it is. Who else would it be?” Kurin responded.
“What are you doing about at this hour?” the voice sounded jovial enough, but Jurel's instincts stirred, whispered to him that Kurin had better consider his words carefully.
“Why I'm simply going to visit my nephew. I received a note from him yesterday and I was concerned by the young man's words.”
“Interesting,” replied the guard, “Because Aldrig and Benn told me that your nephew was coming to visit you.”
Kurin laughed nervously, and cleared his throat. The old man is buying time so that he can think up a story. Oh bloody hell. He lay in the cart, completely motionless, barely daring to breath, definitely not daring to scratch the pinpricks left by the blanket, thinking that their journey was over even before it had begun.
